The Cost
by Ava Brando
Summary: Post AWE. He had been warned of the cost. Now, alone after forty years, Will recognizes just how high the price was. Despairing, Will feels hopeless... yet there is one who may be able to help.
1. Prologue: The Weathered Eye

A/N: Before we begin, I'd like to draw your attention to a few details: this is a post AWE story, and I don't believe it will go longer than a few chapters, probably ten at the most. (Do not hold me to that, however; we shall see) As you will learn with my stories, it is best not to jump to conclusions; I'm not always a "happy ending" type of person. (consider that a warning) Other than that, I hope you enjoy this as much as I am enjoying writing it. **AB**

**The Cost**

_"For what we want most, there is a cost that must be paid in the end."_

_- Tia Dalma, "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End"_

**Prologue: The Weathered Eye **

She had watched.

The sea grew treacherous in the midst of the night. A cold and unforgiving wind churned the waves violently. The rolling clouds hid the stars from her old and failing eyes. Under the hood of her cloak, her hair -now coarse and gray- curled round her jaw and face, bristling against the breeze. The cloak, though heavy, did nothing to warm the chill that had settled into her veins long ago. She shivered, her lips trembling. Within a moment, she began to cough, and out of habit brought her handkerchief to her mouth. She only needed to glance at it to see the dark spots blotching the white silk. In the darkness, it looked like oil; if there had been light, she knew she would have seen a deep red. The color of dying blood.

She was running out of time. She knew it. She felt it with every pained breath; the final gasp was near, and her body would soon betray her to a bitter end.

She had watched. And she had waited. Just as it seemed the night would never end, the faintest yellow of dawn began to peek above the horizon. It grew steadily, the glowing orb of sunlight freeing itself from watery depths. An instant later, the familiar green flash danced acrossed the sky. As it faded, she could barely make out the shape of an old wooden ship.

Gathering all her strength, she stood on weary legs. No longer a spry, limber woman of twenty, illness and age had stolen her agility, and she walked as a woman with a hunch. With great effort, she made it to the sandy beach, falling into the arms of her beloved husband.

His eyes were filled with two emotions, she noticed; one, of joy. That much was a given, after an absence of ten years. Yet it was not this, but the second, that broke her heart.

Fear. It was evident as he took her in his arms. It reflected within the dark and the deep of his eyes, in the tenderness of his touch, in the worried words that spilled from his lips. She could not respond; she was overcome with the illness again, and coughed violently into the stained handkerchief she'd kept ready in her palm. As he saw the drops of blood that remained on her lips, a tear began to gleam in the corner of his eye. With a sighing breath, he managed to ask, "What of Bill?"

A feeling akin to a knife through the heart shook her to the core upon hearing the name of her dead son. Yes, dead, to the same illness that whispered a similar sentence over her life, night and day. Yet as she gazed upon his unchanged face, she felt his sadness; it was as though she were experiencing Bill's death all over again.

"Gone," was all the answer she could whisper.

The tear that had been waiting against his lashes escaped now. It traveled the length of his tanned face, mingling with the hair of his beard. With a trembling finger, she brushed it a way, forcing a smile as she looked up at him. She felt so much smaller in his arms now, more a child than a wife, and closer in age to a grandmother than her unaging, undying lover.

There was a long, lasting moment of silence, broken only as coughs again racked her body. He found he could not support her as she shook, and lowered her and himself to the sand. As she heaved, he caressed the silver hair that ran the length of her back. Just ten years ago, it had been the color of the sun. Just ten years.

And in just ten years, everything had changed.

She could not stop coughing. Her lips were beginning to turn blue. Soon, she could no longer sit up, and he held her in his lap as her breathing grew steadily labored. Finally, the illness released her for a moment. She could feel the cold of death beginning to cover her, as it had been taunting to do for months now. With teary eyes, she put her hand against her husband's face.

"At least I got to see you one last time," came the quiet whisper.

He covered her hand with his own. In thirty years, her touch was still as gentle as ever.

She smiled a peaceful, gentle smile. "I didn't think we would end up quite like this." He managed to laugh; he knew her attempts to cheer him were well meant. After a moment, she spoke again. "In all my life, I've loved you more than anything."

"I love you, too," he whispered.

The smile grew bigger, then began to fade as the end became apparent for both of them. Her breathing became rapid, and she coughed several times, her eyes clenching shut. With all her strength, she forced them open, looking out over the sea

"Will you watch the sunrises for me?" She asked.

He nodded. "Always."

She breathed softly; he could feel her heartbeat growing faint. The long lashes fluttered closed over eyes that held more beauty than all the treasures in the world. Her lips parted, forming a final, whispered plea.

"Keep a weathered eye on the horizon."


	2. Chapter 1: A Day of Mourning

**Chapter 1: A Day of Mourning**

_"Has He not promised comfort to those who mourn?"_

_- C.S. Lewis, __Letters: C.S. Lewis_

Ten years ago, things had been different for William Turner.

Ten years ago, William Turner had a son. William Turner had a wife. He loved them both dearly, more than life itself. His wife was the fairest beauty on all the seas; his son was his exact likeness. They were the sunshine piercing the thundercloud; they were the hope of spring in the midst of snow.

They were the only things that had given him light. They were the only things worth living for.

Ten years ago, he had had a purpose. His task -his curse- was made bearable by the promise of seeing his beloved Elizabeth and son Bill once every ten years, rather than be parted for all eternity.

Yet, in the course of some ten years, that had all changed.

Bill, as far as William could tell, fell ill with consumption just before his twenty-sixth birthday. His death came shortly after. Elizabeth grew sick too, yet remarkably made it to the island -their island- before the sickness took her. She died in his arms.

He could recall the day vividly, because it was one of three days they had together. He had not imagined the cruel twist of fate, the terrible turn of destiny; he'd imagined holding her in his arms, holding her close, making love to her as he had so many years before.

Instead, he could only weep as she took her final breath. When her body went cold, he buried her atop the grassy hill.

And now, another ten years had passed. The crude wooden cross that marked her grave looked old and weathered. The place that had been only a pile of dirt when he'd left it was now overcome with grass and wildflowers. Tracing his finger over the rotting planks, he could just barely make out the inscription he'd carved.

_Elizabeth Turner_

_Wife, Mother,_

_and Pirate King_

He'd added the last part against his better judgment. It was something he himself would not have wanted on his grave marker. Yet, it was something that made her proud, something she'd been so proud of, she'd shared it with their son when he was just a boy.

He smiled at the dim memory of her as a pirate. The sea life suited her well; he felt she was never so beautiful or so charming as when she was at sea. She was born to live the life of a sailor; the life of a pirate, even.

Yes, the life of a pirate. He remembered that fateful day with clarity, when they took their final stand against Davy Jones. She was fierce, she was confident...

She was beautiful. She was always beautiful, heart wrenchingly so.

Ten years.

William Turner could measure his life in days. Four days out of forty years. Four days; they were the only days worthwhile. Four days; they were the only days that mattered. When he'd been made captain -they called it "saved"- one day out of ten years seemed so much kinder than death.

Yet now, as he faced countless days out of countless decades, he was not sure this was so.

Why did he even come ashore anymore, he wondered. There was nothing for him; there was no person to see, no wife, no child to visit. There was only emptiness. A day of emptiness before returning to the land of the dead.

_God Almighty, is there no relief for a man as forgotten as me?_

He stayed at her grave for who knows how long. He sat at the headstone, caressing it gingerly, grieving her in tears and silence. In time, he stood; he needed to breathe, to take a moment to himself. Walking away, William faced the sea and looked to the sun; it was not yet setting, but was past the time of noonday. He breathed in, closing his eyes as a breeze caressed his face. Ah, the breeze; he'd missed breezes. There were no breezes in the sea he called his own; the ship was pulled onward by an unseen current. Wind was unnecessary. He'd spent too much time in the locker for certain, now, as he found something as insignificant as a breeze so divine. The idea was so ludicrous he could only laugh, a feeling and sound now foreign to him.

He looked at the sun again, and he remembered a request Elizabeth had made as she lay in his arms. The breeze caressed his face again, and he whispered into it.

"I've kept my promise, Elizabeth. I watch the sunrises; I've kept a weathered eye on that horizon..."

With a sigh, he turned, intending to return to the grave. But something stopped him; it was a sight he never expected to see. One he never wished or wanted to see, even.

A woman.

A woman knelt before Elizabeth's grave, her delicate fingers tracing over the barely-visible inscription on the cross.

William blinked; surely this was an illusion. Yet as he neared, he saw it was no mistake, no hallucination; she was as real as the wind on his back.

And she had the gall to kneel before his wife's grave.

As he neared, he could hear her singing softly. The song was of a language he did not recognize, but the tune was mournful, intended for those who grieved. For a moment, she was unaware of William's presence. It was only when he spoke that she paid him any attention.

"What are you doing?" He asked sharply.

She seemed unmoved by his sterness. Turning, she met his eyes; to his surprise, tears stained her fair cheeks.

"I mourn the lost, sir," was her simple reply.

"Lost?" Now he was perplexed. "Do you even know this woman, this 'lost' one?"

She turned back to the grave, placing a wildflower on the cross. "Not what you would call knowing, sir." She replied.

The cryptic answer did not appease him in the slightest. Feelings of grief, anger, and upsetedness caused him to draw his sword. "On your feet," he ordered.

The woman stood with the grace of a dancer, a grace that became more apparent as she turned to face him. She was taller than he'd expected, and shapely; the dress that she wore would have sent all the English noblewomen chattering, as it left little to the imagination. Long golden hair hung down her back and over breasts barely concealed by fabric. Several of her yellow curls danced about eyes as green as the grass beneath her bare feet.

She did not flinch at the sight of his sword. "Why use your steel against me, sir?" She asked softly.

William did not back down. "Why are you here? How do you know Elizabeth?"

"You mean 'did', of course. How 'did' I know Elizabeth?" She replied.

Will gritted his teeth. "How do, or how did, you know Elizabeth? Answer the question, or so help me God, I will kill you!" He placed the blade on her slender throat.

She swallowed hard, but was otherwise unmoved by his passions. "Would Elizabeth let you kill me, an innocent woman who has done nothing to you?"

His hand tightened on the handle. "You know nothing of Elizabeth." He said through clenched teeth. Still, he lowered and sheathed his blade, then took a step back and turned away from the woman. After a moment's silence, she spoke.  
"Does it hurt you still, to hear her name?" She asked quietly.

"Nothing you say can hurt me." He said coldly.

"I suppose not." She whispered, taking a step near him and placing her hand on his shoulder; he brushed off her touch. "You need not fear me, William." She said.

He felt his eyes widen. "How did you know my name?" He asked.

The smile grew. "You mean 'do', of course. How do I know your name?" She laughed; it was a sound as light as air. "I just do," was all she said.

He turned to face her and found all his breath left his body. It was stolen by a shock unlike any he'd ever experienced.

The woman was gone.

* * *

"You've never seen her before?" Bootstrap asked as he and Will stood at the helm of _The Flying Dutchmen_. Will had returned a few hours earlier, trembling after his strange encounter on the island. He'd waited for the majority of the crew to be asleep before talking with his father.

"Never." Will replied. "Normally I can recognize faces, but she..." he shook his head, "I've never seen her before." He looked at his father. "And she said she knew Elizabeth, but she looked no more than twenty; she couldn't possibly have known her. But there she was, weeping by her graveside."

"What did you do?"

"I... I got upset. And I threatened her." Will avoided his father's eyes. "It's not one of my better moments, but I couldn't help myself. And then..." His voice trailed off as he remembered.

"And then? What happened?" Bootstrap prodded.

William swallowed hard. "She said my name."

"Ah..." Bootstrap nodded, beginning to understand. "I see, son."

"What do you think it means?" He asked. "Why does she know Elizabeth? Why does she know me?"

Bootstrap shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I'm a simple man, William; don't know much, don't pretend to know much. But, I do know this: if it means anything, if she means anything, this won't be the last we've seen of her."

Will turned away, looking over the still, glassy sea.

"I feared as much." He whispered.


	3. Chapter 2: Ten Years

**Chapter 2: Ten Years**

_"One day ashore, ten years at sea: it's a steep price for what's been done."_

_-Bootstrap Bill Turner "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End"_

Ten years. It had come again.

Will was terribly tempted to remain with the ship instead of taking leave for the day. The memory of his last day free haunted him still; the mysterious woman he'd encountered had maneuvered her way into his nightmares. Her words -though by no account frightening- lingered in his memory, and were whispered into his dreams; they caused him to wake in a cold sweat, though whether from fear or from wonder, he could never tell. When the ten year mark came, he reluctantly voyaged ashore; he would again tend to Elizabeth's grave, and pray to whatever gods that be that he would not see her.

He didn't understand this fear of her; he didn't try to understand it. Yet, the more he thought about it -about her- and how he'd once been certain he didn't recognize her... the more he thought he did. Her eyes... they seemed familiar. The lilt of her voice... had he heard it before?

Will didn't know, and supposed he never would. As soon as the thoughts entered his mind, he liked to dismiss them as foolishness. That's what he did now, as he walked across the beach and up the grassy hill. To his great relief, he saw that Elizabeth's grave stood unguarded.

He went to it quietly, with reverence and remembering. He pulled away the weeds that had gathered over ten years, placing a bundle of colorful wildflowers at the base of the cross. The inscription had faded almost entirely; by his next visit, he supposed he'd have to make a new marker completely. The thought depressed him; the world continued to change all around him, yet he remained entirely the same.

Others had foolishly sought immortal life as a blessing; Will saw it for what it was: a curse born of the cruelest of all gods and goddesses.

"Calypso."

He whispered her name with undisguised fury. How he hated her. In human form, she'd pretended to befriend him; when freed from her chains, she revealed her true self: a passion-driven, bloodthirsty, selfish and seeking entity that cared for none, save herself.

It was her curse that kept him bound; the people that perished at her hand were his responsibility. She seemed to take sick delight in killing the thousands, in making her seas run red with blood. She was cruel.

"She is cruel." He said softly.

"Aye, that she is," said a voice from behind him.

Will recognized the voice instantly; it had been singing over him for ten years now. Did the voice belong to a friend, or an enemy? He wasn't sure... but he intended to find out.

Standing, he faced the woman.

"Who are you?" He asked, doing his best to keep his previous rage out of his voice now.

She smiled softly. "No one of great importance, William," came her reply. Walking towards him, she revealed that she carried a wreath of flowers. He stepped aside, and she knelt to place the ring over the cross, humming the song he'd heard her sing years before.

"Why are you here? How do you know Elizabeth?" When she gave no immediate answer, he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stand. "Why won't you answer me?"

"Why do you need an answer?" She asked in reply.

For a moment, he had no response. Soon, he said, "Why do you keep coming here?"

"I told you, I mourn the lost."

"But why her? Why Elizabeth?"

Looking up at him, Will saw her eyes grow wet with tears.

"Because she mattered the most to you."

Her reply stunned him completely. He could say nothing and do nothing but stare at her open-mouthed, trying to understand her answer. Finally, he managed to ask again, "Who are you?"

She closed her eyes; the tears began to fall. "Why do you want to know?"

He took hold of her by the wrists, clenching them tightly so she could not run, as he feared she would. "Because it matters to me."

Her eyes flew open, meeting his. With a sigh, she nodded her agreement. "All right... my name... is Isola."

"And why are you here?" He pressed.

A fury he had not expected spilled from the woman. "Is it not enough to know my name? Unhand me and mourn your dead; I'll not do it for you any longer!" She cried. With force unheard of for a woman, she broke the grasp he had on her, and ran swiftly away, disappearing from sight.

Will spent the remainder of the day in silence. The woman did not return, as she had said. The breeze was the only sound on the island, along with the distant crashing of the waves.

He stayed beside Elizabeth's grave, saying and doing nothing, scarcely thinking; he merely dwelt there, looking heavenward and wondering. The woman had both perplexed and intrigued him; her presence at Elizabeth's grave -though perhaps unwelcome- was kind nonetheless and definitely well meant.

Yet it was her cryptic replies, her answers that riddled him. Elizabeth mattered most to him... what did that mean? Why would she say that... and how would she know? Why would it matter if Elizabeth meant the most to him?

Questions atop questions; she seemed to answer questions with questions.

Pondering made the day go faster, and soon, the sun was setting. Reluctantly, Will walked down the face of the hill and to the beach, where his ship waited just offshore, a small swim away. He boarded her, but before he set sail, he glanced at the island a final time, looking for a glimpse of the white silk and gold hair he knew her by. He saw none.

* * *

The return to the land of the dead drained the last of Will's energy. After being welcomed by the crew, he handed control of the wheel over to Bootstrap.

"Are you all right, Captain?" Bootstrap inquired.

Will dismissed the question with a short reply. "Just tired, Mr. Turner." He answered, then made his way to his quarters.

The captain's quarters had remained relatively unchanged since Will took over from Davy Jones. The room was wide and expansive, with many wide and long windows at the front, facing the endless sea. The only major adjustment Will had found necessary to make was the removal of the large and daunting pipe organ. As it was an instrument he had no desire to learn (and was therefore just wasting space) the organ was taken out and replaced with a large bed that spanned the width of three of the windows. The pipes of the organ remained upon the wall; they had been there so long, removing them might have ruined the whole structure. It was not a dark and sinister room as it had been with its former master; the front had become a living space where many times the whole crew -Will included- would play liar's dice.

Will undressed and fell exhausted into the expansive bed, almost instantly surrendering to sleep. His dreams were filled with her, as they had been for years now. Her voice, her eyes, and now, her name...

* * *

Some time passed. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and the unrelenting darkness came. Torches were lit all round the ship as they sailed onwards, toward the land of the dead. 

It was the sound of raised voices that woke Will first. The voices were followed by clamoring, and the shouts of several sailors. Still groggy, Will stood and dressed, then remade his bed. As he finished, the door opened, and Bootstrap entered.

"Pardon the intrusion, Captain," he apologized.

"Pardoned. Is there a problem?"

"We've found a stowaway in the hold."

"Really? Let him in."

Turning, Bootstrap called to the men just outside the door. "Gents!" At the order, two of the sailors came forward, dragging their captive. They hurled the prisoner at Will, and the person landed next to his legs.

Long blonde hair brushed against his bare feet. The woman's delicate hands shook as she touched his ankle and asked for mercy. Lifting her head, the eyes from his nightmares met his.

"Mercy, please, Captain." Isola whispered.


End file.
